


Only place to go is up

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [25]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (he tries at least), Ada tries to help, Bottom Alfie, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Insecurity, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Tommy is being extra as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: “What?” he asks hoarsely, heartbeat hammering in his throat for no discernible reason at all.There is a long moment of silence.“Nothin',” Alfie says then, the epitome of innocence, probably in the same way he'd say “no idea, mate” when asked how that house over there caught on fire, matches and petrol can still in hand; placing the ball squarely in Tommy's court. Must've noticed Tommy's startled reaction, because his hesitation was probably obvious enough and Alfie's not an idiot, so now he's leaving it up to Tommy to decide whether he wants to go along with it or not.Or, the one where Alfie bottoms.(This is part of a bigger overall AU, so maybe read some of that first.)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: The desert is a waste of time [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1310750
Comments: 111
Kudos: 358





	1. Chapter 1

_“Bloody_ ... fuckin’... oh, come _on-”_

Tommy blinks his eyes open to a variety of noises: Clinking, jangling, rustling and scraping, and somewhere in between it all, Alfie’s voice muttering curses under his breath. Judging by the grey, joyless light that's barely illuminating the room, it’s early still, air is slightly damp and all the chillier for it. The late November fog is making its presence known even inside the house, painting the edges of the windows with a damp haze. 

Tommy rubs a hand over his eyes before pressing his fingers down against his eyelids, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Notices how much colder his face feels compared to the warmth of his own fingers. The tip of his nose feels like ice. To his left, the noises continue – Alfie evidently has been awake for a while, which isn’t unheard of, but very unusual. Alfie’s insomnia tends to be lot less predictable than Tommy’s own and a lot more erratic, most often caused by nightmares he never, ever talks about. They tend to leave him be for months on end just to return in full force, not letting him get a wink of sleep at all for three days straight sometimes, whenever the whole thing gets really bad.

He hasn’t left the bed yet, propped up on his side with his back turned on Tommy, preoccupied with rummaging through his nightstand drawer by the sound of it. He’s not being particularly obnoxious about it, but he’s also not exactly trying to be quiet either. 

Tommy heaves a sigh and tries to remember how many times he woke up during this particular night. He feels exhausted, but then again he always does. Can’t help but think that there _must_ have been a time that wasn’t the case, when he would manage to wake up and feel at least somewhat rested. Before the war probably, but hell if he can remember what that felt like now. 

This particular morning, he doesn’t feel any worse than usual, at least. 

Alfie isn’t paying him any attention. Might not even have noticed Tommy’s awake yet, or maybe he just doesn’t care because he’s preoccupied. Maybe he’s in a mood. Tommy sighs again and then, on a whim, rolls over and into him, less coordinated than he usually would be, but fuck it, it’s not like there’s anybody here to see, and fits himself against the broad expanse of Alfie’s back. 

As always, Alfie's wearing his undershirt, because he hates the cooler seasons with a burning passion and likes to take precautions against the faintest possibility of being cold. Something must be working, in any case, because he decidedly isn’t cold, radiating the deep, soothing warmth of a wood stove instead. He doesn’t startle in the slightest at the sudden contact, which means he probably _did_ notice Tommy waking up; and cranes his head around a bit in Tommy’s direction, not enough to actually look at him, but enough to acknowledge his presence. 

“Welcome once more to this fine fuckin’ world of the living, mate,” he says, sounding entirely too awake for his usual self at this early hour, like he’s already irritated by some slight the world has thrown at him that was without a doubt entirely unjustified. 

“Mmmph,” is all Tommy has to say to that. Buries his face against the back of Alfie’s neck and pushes his nose against the warm skin, making Alfie suck in a surprised breath in response. 

“Oi!” 

“Shut’p” Tommy murmurs. “S’not that bad.”

“I’ll be the bloody judge of that, if you don't mind, yeah,” Alfie says, before he continues, muttering, “Not that fuckin’ bad, he says…” and goes back to digging through his drawer. His hair looks like a fucking mess – regardless of the fact that he’s had it cut not two weeks ago, so it should be too short to be _anything,_ but somehow he still manages a disheveled air. Like a lot of other things, it makes absolutely no sense and Tommy has stopped questioning it entirely. 

He smells good, Tommy thinks, satisfied little feeling warming him from the inside out – like himself, heady and familiar and safe. Tommy wraps an arm around his waist, pressing as close as he can under the covers; loosely curls his fingers into the material of Alfie’s undershirt, which is soft and warm from use, and soaks in the comfortable sensation of it all.

Alfie snorts, stuck somewhere between incredulous and amused and says, “Can I help you, mate?” 

He’s stopped rummaging through the drawer, even though he easily could keep going. It’s not like Tommy is actually interfering with the process. 

“Nah,” Tommy says easily. “Way too late for that.”

“Oh yeah?” Alfie says, clearly amused now. “Is that right?”

“Hm,” Tommy says. There’s faint traces of arousal starting to gather in the pit of his stomach, gently winding their way up his spine; but it’s nothing concrete, not yet. Might lead them somewhere, Tommy thinks, or it might not, depending on how long they have left before they both have to get up. He has no idea what time it is, but he’s got a meeting at half past nine he is not going to miss. 

Alfie makes another amused sound and fits his warm palm over the back of Tommy’s hand, covering it, and interlaces their fingers. They lie there for a few quiet, floating minutes, just breathing together. 

“Go on,” Tommy murmurs eventually, because Alfie has stopped moving entirely. “Didn’t mean to keep you from looking.”

“Oh, didn’t wanna keep me from looking, did you,” Alfie says, good-naturedly mocking. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says.

“See, I think that maybe, right,” Alfie says, voice pitched low, in that tone that never fails to make heat bloom gently behind Tommy’s ribs, that has him breathe out carefully right into Alfie’s hair. “Maybe you’re just hopin’ I might find the oil in there.”

It’s not an actual offer. 

Doesn’t even come close to one, because it's ambiguous like everything else Alfie says – could’ve simply meant getting the oil out for _Tommy,_ to use it on _him,_ like always, like they’ve done what feels like a thousand times at this point, but... well. Tommy _knows_ him, at least some parts of him, knows them down to his bones and with a certainty that should seem frightening sometimes, and that’s not what he meant at all. 

It’s the _way_ Alfie says it more than anything, with a strange mixture of… cautiousness and something close to defiance, like he's extending a challenge. Which isn’t anything new, really, because he's been doing that for years at this point, but for whatever reason this time the direction feels… fucking _scandalous._

There's no other way to put it, Tommy freezes. 

Except that’s not exactly true; because while his mind goes completely blank, his arm tightens around Alfie’s torso of its own volition, fingers clutching at the fabric. There is a loud, shocked exhale that must've been his own, and his hips twitch forward all by themselves as well, cock half-hard all of a sudden, rocking against the small of Alfie’s back because they're so close there is literally nowhere else to go. 

“What?” he asks hoarsely, heartbeat hammering in his throat for no discernible reason at all. 

There is a long moment of silence.

“Nothin’,” Alfie says then, the epitome of innocence, probably in the same way he’d say “no idea, mate” when asked how that house over there caught on fire, matches and petrol can still in hand; placing the ball squarely in Tommy’s court. Must've noticed Tommy's startled reaction because his hesitation was probably obvious enough and Alfie's not an idiot, so now he’s leaving it up to Tommy to decide whether he wants to go along with it or not. 

Tommy’s brain kicks into overdrive at the realization, like it's anxious to make up for lost time, every possible and impossible thought rushing in all at once. The thing is this: Tommy has never, _ever_ thought about it before, hasn’t even considered the possibility of- fuck, he thinks, face heating up, he can’t even go there in the privacy of his own head _._ It seems fucking _obscene,_ for whatever reason, the mere idea of it – seems like something that’s actually inconceivable, like breathing underwater, like something that wasn’t ever going to happen because it’s simply impossible. 

At the same time, it’s all he _can_ think about suddenly; what it might be like, what it might _mean._ It feels like the mental equivalent of looking directly at the sun, in a way, because he can’t even consider it in any sort of actual detail, can’t actually picture it, helplessly staring at the outline of it, trying to pull it into reality. 

His body doesn’t seem to be confused, however, or anxious or unclear about anything, because he can feel everything heat up with a mix of embarrassment and arousal that is more than familiar by now, his face, the back of his knees, the pit of his stomach – and _fuck Alfie,_ honestly, for making this a familiar feeling without even trying. Tommy buries his face against Alfie’s shoulder, deciding right then and that they’re not going to talk about this.

“You all right, mate?” Alfie says, finally. 

He sounds… fine. Sounds perfectly normal, at least on a surface level, almost flippant, but there’s a certain cautious undertone. 

“Yeah,” Tommy croaks. It’s confusing – his body thrumming with arousal, more than ready to go, but at the same time it feels like he just walked face first into a wall; an insurmountable barrier, preventing him from doing anything about it. Fuck, he realizes with something close to panic, what if Alfie meant _right now?_

He wrenches his hand out of Alfie’s grip in some sort of silent protest, except he might as well have left it where it was, because his fingers immediately curl back into Alfie’s undershirt on what seems to be pure instinct, like he can’t bring himself to let go. But still, Tommy thinks nonsensically, at least he put up _some_ kind of fight. 

Alfie huffs something close to a laugh, vibrating through him, and says, “Fuckin’ hell… I’d known that line’d make you go quiet? Yeah? Would’ve saved it for a special occasion, wouldn’t I.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tommy mutters. Bites at the spot where Alfie’s neck meets his shoulder in retaliation, just hard enough to hurt, sucking at the skin a bit, which makes Alfie snort an amused noise _again._

“Wouldn’t know how to save the bloody _king_ if you were singing the national anthem,” Tommy says, spiteful.

“Now Thomas, _that,_ right, that is a very fuckin’ hurtful thing to say to a man in his own bedroom, innit,” Alfie says. “We do _not_ speak of the fuckin’ monarch in this house, right. It sours the spirits.”

“Wouldn’t worry about that too much,” Tommy says. “Eh? If by spirits you mean your rum, that is, ‘cause that’s already sour.”

“You fuckin’ _what-”_ Alfie says, pretending to be outraged, already twisting around in Tommy’s arms and rolling on top of him; doesn't quite pin him to the bed, but he does settles most of his weight which basically amounts to the same thing. Tommy lets him, bracketing Alfie’s hips with his own thighs before he wraps one leg loosely around the back of Alfie’s calves. 

He’s trying very hard not to grin. 

Says “what?” as confused as he possibly can, and “thought you already knew that” before Alfie’s hand is in his hair, pulling his head back with an iron grip just this side of too tight, and they’re off, they’re kissing. It does turn hot and heavy after that; the two of them pressed close in the early morning light, Alfie shoving a hand underneath Tommy’s undershirt and thumbing at a nipple, mouthing at the exposed line of his neck until Tommy’s panting up at the ceiling, gone completely pliant at the touch.

They get off like that too; with minimal effort, barely even bother getting their clothes out of the way, lazily grinding against each other until Alfie works a hand between them. 

“Remind me,” he says, teasing. “The fuck was it you said, mate? Hmm? ‘Bout my rum?” 

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it,” Tommy manages, bucking up from the bed as he’s trying to work his cock through Alfie’s fist, eyelids fluttering shut at the friction. After that, it’s over fairly quickly. They don’t draw it out because they actually have to get up and _do_ things with their day. 

At least Tommy does. 

When they’re moving around the bedroom a while later, getting dressed in companionable silence, Alfie suddenly says “So… just to be clear, yeah… that’s a no? Categorically?” very offhandedly, like he just now remembered his initial question again. 

Tommy blinks at him, fumbling with the shirt button he was about to close, and can feel his face heat up again. 

“No to what,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what Alfie's talking about. 

Alfie shrugs and says, good-naturedly, "One of the more puzzling questions regardin’ life as a whole, mate, innit" which doesn’t make a lick of sense, but it doesn’t really have to, because it's basically just Alfie deciding to drop the subject. He's letting Tommy off the hook, not acknowledging anything out loud, which… doesn’t fucking sit right either, if Tommy is perfectly honest. 

Couldn’t even explain why exactly, because it’s not like Alfie got it _wrong_ – Tommy’d rather put his cigarette out on his own tongue than have an actual conversation about this right now, but that doesn’t mean Alfie has any fucking right to just dismiss the topic outright. 

“I…” he says hastily and then has to clear his throat before he adds, at a loss, “I don’t actually… I don't know.”

“Hmmm,” is all Alfie has to say to that, like Tommy just said something that has to be carefully considered. 

“Do-” Tommy says and has to bloody clear his throat _again_ before he can continue, “D’you, erm… want to?”

Alfie shrugs at that, a big exaggerated gesture, and says, “Naahhh.” 

They both know it’s not true, even before he rambles on, “Just thought I’d bring it up, didn’t I, for… what have you, sake of completeness, yeah, equality, things of that nature, right, given your communist roots and all that-”

He trails off when Cyril nudges the door open with his head, pads into the bedroom and sits down with a loud huff, staring at the both of them expectantly. Wants to be fed, Tommy thinks, feeling weirdly grateful about the interruption, because this means the whole conversation is over and done with for now, Alfie’s undivided attention shifting to the dog without fail. 

Then he feels fucking _guilty_ for feeling grateful. 

* * *

For the next three days, it’s impossible to get the idea out of his head. 

He keeps thinking about it and thinking about it and fucking _thinking_ about it, despite the fact that it still seems like something abstract and way out of his reach, actually fucking Alfie. Like jumping off a cliff and just flying away instead of plummeting towards inevitable death; a nice idea in theory, but not something that is ever feasibly going to happen. 

His first instinct is to leave London entirely, just hole up at home and ignore the issue until it goes away. Alfie would undoubtedly get the message, which… well. Might not be entirely fair and also not the most mature thing to do, but then again, Tommy thinks, it's _Alfie._ He'll be fine. He'll get over it because it's what he always does, and anyway, it's not like he wasn't aware he was taking a calculated risk by bringing this up. Probably. Maybe. 

It's what Tommy keeps telling himself, at least. 

Ada isn't exactly thrilled to see him, but puts him up in the guest room with a minimum of fuss. She clearly thinks something is wrong, sarcastically asking “You have to go into hiding now, is that it?” the very first night at the dinner table.

They both know she’s only half-joking. 

“Yes,” Tommy deadpans. “And since nobody sensible would ever set foot in this house voluntarily…”

“Says the man who _voluntarily_ keeps waltzing into this very house,” Ada says, raising an eyebrow. “Uninvited I might add.”

Karl is chewing quietly, following their conversation with the same undivided attention somebody might follow a boxing match they've bet their weekly earnings on. 

That evening, Tommy considers talking to her about it for exactly five seconds before he comes to his bloody senses again. Apart from every other reason not to bring it up, the idea also makes him feel weirdly defensive on Alfie's behalf. After all, it's nobody's fucking business what they might or might not get up to, not even Ada's. 

_Especially_ not Ada's. 

Who very clearly thinks something is amiss, judging by the very unsubtle looks she keeps giving him. Tommy's not entirely sure how much she's guessed already about his usual whereabouts in London _–_ and it's not like he's over at Alfie's house _all_ of the fucking time, his brain supplies somewhat petulantly, he makes it a point to stay at a hotel too, every now and again _–_ but it's obvious she's suspecting _something._

Manages to keep quiet until the second evening, which is pretty impressive by Shelby standards, Tommy's not going to lie; but then she finally can't seem to help herself anymore, because she says, suddenly and without warning, "So. Solomons decided to kick you out?" 

Tommy inhales a mouthful of smoke and starts coughing, wheezing "what?" with some difficulty. 

"Did. Solomons. Decide. To-" Ada repeats, comically slow, and Tommy snaps, “Yes, all right, heard you the first time. Fuck.”

“Oh don't act so _shocked,”_ Ada says. 

Tommy stares at her blankly, trying to convey that he isn't shocked so much as highly irritated and also that she’s wrong on all accounts solely with his face. 

“I'm just asking,” Ada continues, unperturbed. “Cause it seems to me, as an _impartial observer,_ that there might be some trouble in paradi-”

“Jesus _fucking_ _Christ,”_ Tommy says very loudly, to make her stop talking immediately. They're not having this fucking conversation, he thinks. They're _not._

“It's not over, is it?” Ada asks then, like that possibility just now occurred to her, and Tommy hisses “what? no!” before he can stop himself. 

“Well, what then?” Ada says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Did you do something?”

“Did I _do_ something?” Tommy repeats, incredulous. 

“Yeah!” Ada says. “I don't know the details of how it works, do I, two men and all, but I don't know… did you manage to fuck it up already?”

“Me?” Tommy says, outraged. “If anything, _he's_ the one who- _I'm_ not-”

“Right," Ada says, unexpectedly gentle all of a sudden, and _fuck her,_ Tommy thinks, seriously, this is none of her concern. “So did _he_ do something then-”

“Oh, _fuck off,”_ Tommy growls, sullen, resisting the childish urge to cross his arms in front of his chest. Ada has the nerve to look way too amused after that, but she graciously abandons this particular topic of conversation. 

That night, Tommy dreams. 

They’re in a caravan, weirdly enough, noise filtering in from the outside – voices talking, fire crackling. It’s dark and cramped, much more claustrophobic than it actually would be, Tommy thinks. He knows that he’s dreaming, except it doesn’t seem to matter, doesn’t appear to be that important in the grand scheme of things.

 _Fuckin’ hell,_ Alfie says, but he sounds amused more than anything, _this is bloody uncomfortable, innit._

He’s practically glowing in the dark, white of his underwear a stark contrast to the dark wood all around, comfortably leaning against the opposite with his arms crossed. Tommy tells him to shut up. The caravan is going to catch on fire, he thinks, they’ve built the campfire way too close. Doesn’t even know how he knows that. Doesn’t seem to care, either. 

_It happens,_ he says out loud, just in case Alfie doesn’t know this, which earns him a shrug. 

_Sure, mate, whatever the fuck you say._

Tommy’s closer now, crowding into him, Alfie’s raised eyebrow making his heart pound. Alfie’s not moving, one cowlick curling away from his head right above his left ear. 

_What’s this, then?_ he says, when they’re practically chest to chest, as if it isn’t obvious they’re going to fuck. 

_Turn around,_ Tommy tells him and Alfie grins at him, delighted, like that is the funniest thing he’s ever heard and says, _Where’re your fuckin’ manners, Thomas?_

They’re up against the wall now, nowhere left to go, Alfie broad and solid under his palms, one hand curling around Tommy’s neck. There’s a shout from the outside, and then an unnaturally loud crack that sounds like thunder, some of the moisture inside the wood boiling and then vaporizing... caravan catching on fire, Tommy think absentmindedly, must be. He’s hard, realizes it almost like an afterthought, rolling his hips against Alfie once and then everything tips and suddenly they’re horizontal. 

Alfie’s staring up at him, furrow between his brow, saying, _Not very stable, these fuckin’ things, are they._

Tommy thinks he makes some sort of noise in response – possibly, maybe, too busy digging his fingers into the meat of Alfie’s thigh – because they’re both naked now, sprawled out on top of the dark, fragrant wood, clothes gone without a trace, vaporized as well, burnt away, who even knows. 

_The fuck you think you’re doing, mate?_ Alfie says, but he sounds breathless instead of angry, and doesn’t protest or try to move away when Tommy settles down between his legs, not even trying to keep his weight off. 

This is happening, Tommy thinks, heart hammering in his throat, blood throbbing in his cock, this is- 

_Fuck._

He only realizes he’s started to push inside when Alfie’s hands clutch at him all of a sudden, one hand wrapping around his biceps, fingers of the other one digging into the small of Tommy’s back, five points of contact that are hot like fire, burning his skin.

 _Bloody fuck-_ Alfie manages, practically wheezing, sounding _shocked_ of all things and Tommy crushes their mouths together to finally shut him up, because Alfie never fucking _does,_ does he- slides home without stopping once; fucks into the tight, burning heat of him, and muffles the noise Alfie makes, swallows everything down. Alfie’s panting against his mouth now, as he's searing Tommy’s back with his hand, pulling him in, in, in- 

Everything is hot and damp and dark, crackling of the burning wood all around, and it’s warm, it’s _hot,_ but there’s no smoke and no light, just their bodies moving together, frantic pace, no finesse at all. Tommy’s not being gentle, knows he isn’t, doesn’t _want_ to be – wants Alfie to fucking feel it, wants to _fucking nail_ _him_ to the wooden plank, wants to fuck him through the _floor,_ wants him to fucking take what he’s given-

 _Like that, eh?_ he growls, _yeah, exactly like that,_ or maybe he’s just thinking it, he’s not sure, feeling out of breath and like he could do this for a hundred years with no problem at all. Alfie’s staring up at him with eyes like embers, burning right through him; he looks a mess, red-faced and disheveled, lips swollen from kissing and shiny with spit. His mouth is hanging open, and he’s taking a deep breath, obviously to give some kind of answer, except Tommy shoves into him as hard as he can and stays there, buried as deep as he can go; kisses him at the same time, steals all the noises from him, and Alfie grabs a fistful of his hair, like he needs something to hold on to and moans into Tommy’s mouth-

Tommy startles awake like somebody kicked him in the ribs. 

The room is as dark as it’ll ever get, this being London, and very quiet, because Ada’s guest room is at the back of the house, in a well-off neighborhood too, which means it’s not exactly busy this time of night.

 _Fuck,_ he’s hard. Curled in on himself a bit while sleeping, lying on his side, with his cock practically throbbing between his legs. He’s got a hand shoved inside his own underwear in less than two seconds, breath hissing out of his nose at the first contact, fucking into his own fist immediately. Can’t stop thinking about the dream that's clinging to his mind like drops of water even after he’s resurfaced; the overall _feeling_ more than anything, the atmosphere, heat searing down his spine, burning him up from the inside. 

“Christ,” he pants, head turning sideways, hiding his face against the pillow to try and muffle any potential sound, even though the house is big enough nobody would be able to hear him anyway. All of his thoughts are jumbled inside his head, the heat of the fire, the dark fragrant wood, Alfie spread out under him with that fucking _look_ in his eyes, glowing skin and hot, bruised mouth, the way he _felt,_ the way he _sounded-_

Tommy’s breath hitches in the back of his throat, and then he’s spilling over his own fingers – didn’t even think to shove his shorts down, and can’t bring himself to give a fuck – just a long, trembling wave of pleasure that leaves him out of breath and faintly embarrassed and immensely fucking satisfied. 

Time to face the facts then, he thinks, no point in avoiding the topic any longer. 

Does he wonder what it would be like, getting to fuck Alfie? Yes. Does he actually want to try? Also yes. It’s a strangely terrifying thought, in all honesty, because… _fuck._ Alfie's done it before, Tommy's pretty fucking sure about that. They haven't ever talked about it in any kind of detail but, well. Tommy's not bloody delusional, for all that he's trying to ignore that knowledge most of the time. It only makes sense. 

Which means Alfie is probably going to have certain… expectations, if they ever do decide to switch it up. And why wouldn't he, Tommy thinks, it's only fair. It's not like Alfie has ever let _him_ down in that regard. Pulled all kinds of other shite, yes, because at the end of the day he's an untrustworthy, backstabbing, egotistical bastard, just not when it comes down to _this –_ the bedroom, having sex, whatever Tommy wants to call it. 

The thought makes his face heat up, ridiculously embarrassed all over again, like this is a new bloody development he hasn’t gotten used to quite yet, like they _haven't_ been fucking on a more or less regular basis for more than a year now. Which is part of the problem, really, because it's been… good so far, to put it mildly. And Tommy will never, ever admit this out loud, but part of the reason for that is definitely the fact that Alfie… _well._ Alfie knows what the fuck he's doing.

Which should be a calming thought, albeit an infuriating one _–_ and usually it _is,_ which is even more infuriating _–_ but now it just makes Tommy feel out of his element, unsure of himself in a way he hasn't been in bloody _years_ at this point. 

Also… if he actually wants to go through with this he’s going to have to bring it up at some point, a prospect that already makes him never want to speak to Alfie ever again.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time they see each other, Alfie shows up half an hour late to their monthly meeting at the bakery, which isn’t unheard of, and miraculously also never stops _him_ from taking grave offense at other people being late to anything without the slightest trace of irony.

Probably doing it on purpose, Tommy thinks, which… yeah. Okay. Fair enough. 

While he’s waiting around in Alfie’s office, smoking and trying to finish the half-done crossword in yesterday’s paper, Ollie keeps checking on him through the glass window in the office door. He’s not even trying to be subtle about it. Has a tendency to do that whenever Alfie’s late to anything, Tommy noticed that a long time ago. On his more paranoid days, he suspects Ollie might have to report back to Alfie about the various states of impatience of the people waiting, because that is just the kind of thing Alfie might do. Then again, maybe Ollie is just anxious. 

Tommy waves him into the room after the fourth time his pale face appears in the frame of the window like the scrawnier version of Hamlet’s father. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Ollie says politely as he enters the room, looking very suspicious. 

“Ollie,” Tommy says in the same expectant tone. 

Ollie has got his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking very unimpressed.

“How can I help you,” he says after a few seconds of awkward silence, when it becomes clear Tommy is just going to stare at him, perfectly content with being irritating.

“You got any rum around,” Tommy says, which is really a request masquerading as a question and they both know it.

“Oh,” Ollie says, sounding surprised and a bit relieved as well. “You want some- I mean sure, yeah. Coming right up.”

“Great,” Tommy says and goes back to his crossword. Either Alfie is going to think he’s taking the piss, or he’ll recognize the peace offering for what it is. In any case, Tommy will be at least a little bit drunk when he shows up, which honestly can’t hurt, no matter how their conversation is going to go. 

Alfie, when he finally deigns to appear, with the casual air of somebody who’s just taken a very nice walk and is in no hurry whatsoever, doesn’t mention the week-long silence Tommy just put him through at all. He notices the glass of rum, almost empty by this point, immediately, but doesn’t say anything about that, either. 

“Morning, Alfie,” Tommy says.

“Hmmmmm,” Alfie grumbles and sinks into his chair. He’s got his cane with him, casually putting it on top of the desk, but he didn’t really use it walking in, so it’s probably just a precaution. 

“You’re late,” Tommy says.

“Oh, am I?” Alfie says, feigning surprise, but there’s a faint trace of amusement underneath it all. Not actually angry then, Tommy thinks. Just wanted to make his point. 

“Yes.”

“Huh,” is all Alfie says in response, combing fingers through his beard. 

“You know,” Tommy says, and then downs what’s left of his rum on impulse – making a show of it, tilting his head back more than necessary and swallowing slowly, because he’s well aware that Alfie is watching him closely. “There’s some people out there, eh? Who _insist_ that you talk a lot.”

“Really,” Alfie deadpans. 

“Oh yeah,” Tommy says, clearing his throat before he reaches for his packet of cigarettes, neatly deposited next to the ashtray long before Alfie arrived. “Never shut up, as a matter of fact.”

“Hmm,” Alfie says with mild interest. He’s grinning now, rubbing at his mouth absentmindedly, obscuring it from view, but still, it’s obvious. Tommy can tell by his eyes. It bothers him a bit, now that he actually thinks about it, the possibility of Alfie actually realizing he was panicking, which isn't even _accurate,_ technically speaking, Tommy just needed… a few days. To figure out… some things. Because he was feeling… some type of way about them. End of story. 

“So,” he says, businesslike, inhaling deeply from his cigarette before he continues. “How have you been?”

“Bit early in the morning, mate, wouldn’t you say” Alfie says instead of actually answering. He nods in the direction of Tommy’s empty glass. “See you’ve gone for the unusual as well, haven’t you.” 

“Well,” Tommy says, trying not to smirk. “I’ve been told the Whisky is for business.”

“Not drinking Whisky though, are you.”

“No,” Tommy says, very deliberate, meeting Alfie’s unblinking gaze. The back of his neck feels hot, but in a good way. “I’m not.”

“Hmmm,” Alfie says again. Lazily scratches at his cheek before he rubs a palm over his mouth again. Cocks his head to the side like he’s vaguely curious at best, which is nothing but pretense and they both know it. “All right then,” he says finally, circling his wrist in the air. “All right. Yeah. Right. Good a time of day as any, innit, the morning, to start with the… the vices and the transgressions.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says and pointedly clears his throat. “Good a time as any.”

They do talk business after that. Alfie keeps fishing for information in between, about the manor Tommy is currently planning on… _acquiring,_ because it’s what he’s done for weeks, not trying to be subtle about it in the slightest. Knows about the private investigator at this point, Tommy’s pretty sure about that, but is probably still guessing at the intended target or he’d have thrown the name _Arrow House_ out there at some point, just to watch for a possible reaction. Good, Tommy thinks, keep him guessing. It’s more fun this way, at least for him, because Alfie usually despises not knowing, but then again, that’s not Tommy’s problem, now is it.

They go their separate ways for the rest of the day after that, with the unspoken agreement that Tommy is going to spend the night again. By the time he shows up that evening, the cane is in use and also, Cyril is there. Alfie probably brought him to the bakery this morning, Tommy thinks, but Cyril must have wandered off instead of coming with Alfie into the office. A few of the men are quite fond of him, so Cyril tends to do the rounds first thing in the morning, collecting his share of affection.

He perks up when he sees Tommy, trotting over to greet him. 

“Hello there,” Tommy says, petting his head while Cyril noses at his knees, clearly smelling something interesting. “And how’ve you been, eh?”

Cyril huffs in response. He very rarely actually barks, and even then the situation has to be very dire or _very_ exciting for him to make some actual noise. Usually, it’s mainly huffs, some grumbling and some growling, and sometimes low, contained woofing noises. 

Alfie wants to go to dinner, but he’s clearly just suggesting it because he thinks Tommy should eat something. Tommy couldn’t even explain what exactly gives him away, just that it’s obvious somehow. Probably because Alfie never asks whenever he’s the one who is actually hungry; just _decides_ where he wants to go and that’s it, Tommy may come along if he likes. 

So. Alfie’s place it is. 

They’ve just made it inside the house, Alfie barely even finished locking the thousand different locks on his front door, in addition to his ridiculous security gate, when Tommy steps close and fits their mouths together, slow and careful, but insistent. Alfie doesn’t miss a beat. His hand curls around the back of Tommy’s neck like it always does, thumb pressing against the spot right underneath Tommy’s ear; and Tommy is already pulling at him, walks backwards until he can feel the wall against his own back, cool and unforgiving. 

Alfie plasters himself against him with his whole body, looming a bit since Tommy just slouches against the wall, tension bleeding out of him almost against his will. The warm hand at the back of his neck moves to the front until it’s splayed wide directly under his jaw, pushing his head up and back against the wall in just the right way; not too gentle, but not exactly forceful either. Tommy makes a low, satisfied sound, can’t even help himself; lets Alfie work his mouth open and shudders against him when he slips his tongue inside. 

They’re kissing for a long while, syrupy-slow and unhurried, pressed close together in the dark hallway. 

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says eventually and pulls back a bit. Tommy can feel the pad of his thumb against the corner of his own mouth, not quite trying to push inside; Alfie slides it back and forth over Tommy’s slick mouth instead, until he seems satisfied with the result. Could suck him off, Tommy thinks, a hazy thought coated with pleasure, could just let him put his thumb in Tommy’s mouth and then his cock; could take his time with it until Tommy’s entire mouth was feeling feel hot and used. 

“Y’know,” Alfie mutters, and Tommy has no idea what’s showing on his face right now, but Alfie sounds amused, so the current thought process is probably somewhat obvious. “What would the people say, right, if they knew you was capable of makin’ those fuckin’ eyes at somebody, mate? Hm? If they knew you was this fuckin’ easy? S'indicent, is what it is."

“M’not easy,” Tommy says, half-hearted protest at best, even though it’s technically true, he’s really not. Alfie of all people should know that. 

“Yeah,” Alfie agrees unexpectedly, almost absentmindedly. “No, guess not, hm? Only when you want to be, yeah?”

“No,” Tommy mumbles, just to be contrary and Alfie repeats “no?”, gently mocking, and Tommy shakes his head _no,_ eyelids feeling way too heavy to keep them open and then it doesn't matter anyway because they’re kissing again. 

He does end up sucking Alfie off after that – later, when they’ve finally ended up in bed together, slow and meticulous at first, sprawled out across the bed so he can grind down against the mattress at the same time, getting himself all worked up until he’s almost painfully hard, moaning around Alfie’s cock until he can barely breathe anymore. 

Alfie leaves him to his own devices for the most part, accepting the unspoken apology with an almost royal air, like this is his bloody due, letting Tommy do all of the work with a commanding hand fisted in his hair, pulling him this way and that whenever he wants a change in pace. 

As always, he keeps a running commentary through the entire thing, muttered praise and the occasional curse; teasing that makes Tommy's ears feel hot despite everything that's already going on. Kisses Tommy right after he’s come in his mouth, heedless of the mess. Lets him press close and rub himself against Alfie’s thigh until he’s practically shaking with the need to come. 

Alfie keeps him like that for a while too, probably still making some sort of point, Tommy doesn’t even _know_ anymore, until he finally relents and fists Tommy’s cock, starts to get him off with practiced ease. It doesn't take long after that – Tommy is moaning in no time, mouth pressed against Alfie’s shoulder to try and muffle the noise, pulsing and _pulsing_ in Alfie’s hand. 

Afterwards, Alfie looks about ready to doze off. 

He’s not usually the type to fall asleep right after sex, but it's late and who knows, maybe it’s been a long day for him as well. Still, when Tommy works up the nerve to say “so…” while fumbling for his lighter, Alfie blinks his eyes open again. It clearly takes him a second to focus, but then he’s completely present, propping his head up on one of his hands with an expectant look on his face. He knows where this is going. He _has_ to know. Still, he seems perfectly happy to keep his mouth shut for once, which is bloody _typical,_ really,Tommy thinks bitterly

“So,” he says again, a challenge. 

“So,” Alfie parrots back with an innocent look on his face that makes Tommy want to smother him with a pillow. When he glares at him, Alfie blinks back like he has no idea what’s going on, while at the same time very clearly trying not to grin. 

The moment drags on. 

“You know what I mean,” Tommy says eventually, accusatory. 

“Do I?” Alfie says, eyebrows going up, pretending to be surprised. “Cause all I've got to go on here, right, is you throwing _'so'_ in my face. Yeah? Repeatedly, I might add, and I think we can both agree, mate, yeah, we can both arrive at the conclusion that that's not a lot to go on, is it, as far as-”

“Nevermind,” Tommy snaps, awash with nerves all of a sudden he didn't even know were there. Alfie blinks at him, once, seeming _actually_ surprised this time, and then he heaves a big sigh, scratching at the back of his head with the hand that is currently supporting it. 

“Thomas,” he says then. “I do believe, yeah, and feel free _not_ to correct me in that assumption... because I’m always right about these things, aren’t I, I do believe that you're bein' very dramatic over fuckin' nothing, mate. Hm? Aren't you.”

Tommy doesn't say anything. Wants to disagree, even if it's just on principle but… well. This time around, he really, really can't. 

"Bloody hell," Alfie murmurs when Tommy stays silent, talking to himself more than to the world at large, and then he says, very seriously, “I swear to you, mate? Yeah? I do not fuckin’ care, right? Do I. One way or the other. Was a suggestion, wasn’t it, and if that has you looking like you was about to face the firing squad?”

“I, I want to,” Tommy interrupts, all in a rush. “I think.”

If anything, the look Alfie gives him seems even more sceptical. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t get me wrong, mate, right,” Alfie says slowly. He’s taken his rings off for the night, but he’s still fumbling for them now with his free hand, thumb pressing against his knuckles. “Runnin’ for the hills? For days on end? Not exactly a sign of enthusiasm, innit, far as I am-”

“It’s just,” Tommy says, interrupting him again, but then he trails off. He can’t actually say this, he thinks, going for the ashtray to get some extra time. Not out loud. Then he can’t help but add, “Also, I’ve been staying at Ada’s, it’s not like I went to _Boston,”_ even though Alfie probably knows that already. Still, it feels like an important distinction to make.

Alfie makes a low noise that sounds like agreement. 

“What, then,” he says, still weirdly serious by his standards, when Tommy falls silent again. 

Tommy takes a long drag, inhaling as deep as he can, and shrugs for good measure. Can’t bring himself to actually look at Alfie, can’t bring himself to look anywhere really, except at his own hand, holding his almost-finished cigarette. 

“You’ve done it before,” Tommy says, a statement of facts more than an actual question.

“Yes.”

“You liked it,” Tommy says.

“Welllll,” Alfie says, drawing it out like he has to actually think about this, moving his head from side to side. “Would be lying, right, if I said… I liked _all_ of it.”

Tommy blinks at him, feeling intrigued and weirdly relieved, which is probably a terrible reaction to have, all things considered. Who even knows what the fuck Alfie means by that. 

“As in…” he says, and Alfie sighs again, impatient, and says, “Would you say, mate, yeah, the first time you was doing anything at… what? Fifteen? Fourteen? S’Birmingham, innit, so who the fuck even knows what’s going on there-”

“Sixteen,” Tommy says.

Alfie blinks at him again, lighting quick, filing that information away like he does everything else, and mutters, “Took your sweet time then, didn’t you-”

“Not the point,” Tommy says, trying to ignore how warm his face feels all of a sudden. Aggressively stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray that's sitting on the bedside table as usual.

“Well, no,” Alfie says. “S’pose not. Bottom line then, yeah? Didn’t always quite know what I was doin’ at first, did I, starting out, and neither did some of the lads I was doin’ it with, so…”

“I don’t know either,” Tommy forces himself to say. “Eh? I’m no better than… oh fuck _off,_ what?”

Because Alfie is looking amused now, once _again,_ rolling his eyes at the ceiling like he can't believe what he's hearing right now, which doesn’t make any sense at all. Tommy scowls at him, heart hammering in his chest. He'd really like to go to bed, he thinks, not because he’d fall asleep or anything, but just so they could turn the lights off and not have this conversation anymore. 

“Mate,” Alfie says. “Mate, listen. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, don’t I- or well, s’not entirely true, innit, but let’s assume that in this case it is, right- but at this point in time? Yeah? You probably know more about having a cock up your arse than a lot of the lovely ladies doin’ these things for a living and without much of the actual enjoyment. Hm? Don’t you.”

“I don’t-” Tommy says, at a loss; trying not to feel reassured by that idea. “It’s… that’s not the same thing though.”

“Nahh, mate, really isn’t,” Alfie says. “Right about that, aren’t you, yeah… in this here case, _you_ get the easy part for a change.”

And all right, Tommy thinks. Okay. If you put it like _that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to finish this tonight and then all these conversations spiraled out of control.  
> So. Three chapters it is. Sorry everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

The next day is a Sunday, so they’re still in bed by nine. Tommy gets up and goes downstairs, to feed Cyril and put the kettle on, around half past seven, and is bored enough to actually annoy Alfie awake at around eight. Alfie’s tea is lukewarm by then, which is his own bloody fault and doesn’t stop him from complaining about it in the slightest, even though he at least seems to be satisfied with the amount of milk Tommy’s put in his cup. 

It’s pure luck, Tommy has figured out that much by now – there is no right amount, because Alfie will grumble about it being too much or not enough depending on the day and his mood, even if it’s exactly the same each time. 

They lounge around in bed for while after that, both of them sipping their tea and reading their respective books. It feels like the height of luxury, not because of what they're actually doing, but because there’s nowhere to be and nothing to do. Alfie’s focused on Jules Verne, reading quietly for once, which means he either really likes it or really hates it; sitting upright against the headboard with his glasses on, both of their pillows stuffed behind his back to make it more comfortable. Eventually, Tommy sits up and shifts closer, blanket pooling around his waist, before he lays back down to put his head in Alfie’s lap. 

“Oi,” Alfie says, breath going out of him dramatically. “S’cuse you, mate? Some people, yeah, some people are trying to broaden their horizons over here, don’t they.” 

The irritation would be a lot more convincing if his hand wasn’t cradling the top of Tommy’s head immediately, softly scratching over his scalp. 

“Shhhh,” Tommy says, trying not to grin as he brings his book back up, studiously pretending to read. 

_“Shhhh,”_ Alfie imitates him, voice pitched high. “Shhhh. Kindly fuckin’ shhh yourself, yeah.”

Tommy snorts, amused. Blinks up at him, lazy and content. Alfie’s fingers are still in his hair, going this way and that, which feels very nice. Keeps looking up at him, idea half-formed in his mind, not sure if he should suggest it or not, because it’s not like they’re in a rush. Alfie’s gaze goes back to his own page for a long second, before he realizes Tommy is still staring at him and looks back down again. 

“What,” he says. “Hmm?”

Tommy shrugs, which is a bit of a weird sensation, lying down. If it doesn’t happen today, he thinks, it’ll be fine too. If Alfie doesn’t realize what he’s trying to suggest, he's not going to actually say anything… but of course he does. It’s _Alfie,_ after all, so of course he gets it. Tommy can see the realization dawning on his face, can see his expression shift, a split second before Alfie narrows his eyes at him, playing at indignation. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, _that’s_ the way it is, mate? Yeah? I see. Couldn’t even get us some tea what was actually fuckin’ _hot,_ right, but I’m still expected to just roll over at the drop of a hat-” 

Tommy grins at him, deliberately bites down on his lower lip, because that never fails to get a reaction and Alfie stops his own ranting with an amused noise.

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” he says, patting Tommy’s head, affectionate if a bit condescending. “Don’t have to bring out the heavy ordnance for that, yeah? Absolutely no need.”

“No?”

“Nahhh,” Alfie says, and then, like he’s curious, “So… yeah?”

Tommy shrugs again, trying to look like he doesn't really care one way or another. “If you want?”

"Hmmmm," Alfie says like he actually has to think about this, gently tugging at Tommy's hair; pulling his head back a bit to lean down and kiss him, quick and sweet. 

“Right,” he says then, very businesslike all of a sudden, pushing at Tommy’s shoulder. “Move it, hmm? I gotta-”

Tommy rolls away from him and sits back up, baffled, watching him clamber out of bed. 

“What-” he says. “Where are you going?”

“Well,” Alfie says. He’s standing right next to the bed, stretching with his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders this way and that. “The thing is, right. Figure I'm gonna have a bit of a soak first, yeah, if you don't mind. Back actin’ up and all that, and… well.” He hesitates, which is very fucking unusual, scratching at his cheek with one hand. 

“Since… Okay. Seein’ as you’re already… right, no, see,” and now he’s crossing his arms in front of his chest a bit awkwardly, because he clearly noticed Tommy furrowing his brow at him. “M’not trying to say it’s a bad thing, yeah, do I, just… I figure, right, since I already know what I’m doing an’ all, maybe… just, let’s speed things up for now? Yeah? So I’m just gonna go and have a soak, right, and maybe shove a few fingers up my arse while I’m at it, and you just… you keep reading your book, yeah, and don’t worry your pretty little head about the rest.”

Tommy can feel his face heat up, which probably means Alfie isn’t wrong about his assumptions, even though some part of Tommy wants to protest immediately as well, because… honestly, what the hell? This is not how things go. This is not how it usually works between them, not as far as fucking is concerned. Still, with Alfie standing there in his underwear, seeming unbothered by the November chill, looking at him expectantly, it’s hard to actually say anything. He’s clearly got plan, Tommy thinks, he’s got this all figured out. 

Also, if this is what he wants to do… who’s Tommy to tell him no, especially after disappearing for a week? Also, a familiar little voice in his head reminds him, it’s not like Tommy’d even know what to _do,_ which is undeniably true; because okay. On the one hand, it’s not like Alfie had to do all of the work every single time they’ve ever fucked, but he does like doing it. Most of the time, Tommy doesn’t even really put his fingers in when he’s all by himself – not because he wouldn’t enjoy it, but because it seems like a lot of effort to go through, just to get off. 

So he tries to look pleased at the suggestion, ignoring the part that's feeling uneasy about the whole thing. Says “Sure.” and, “Yeah. Go on. I’ll be here.”

“Yeah, you will,” Alfie says good-naturedly. He gets the oil out of the nightstand before he leaves, which makes Tommy swallow hard, arousal starting to unwind in the pit of his stomach. 

He’s gone long enough for Tommy to empty both of their tea cups and get the investigation report on Arrow House out of his briefcase. He can hear the dull sound of water running at some point, probably Alfie filling the bathtub, and then everything falls quiet. Tries to focus on reading the file instead of getting nervous, which is easier said than done, because he has to practically force himself to keep his mind blank, to try not to think about what's probably happening in the bathroom right now. Could just get up and go check, he thinks, cock half-hard at the idea of it, see for himself what’s going there. But that’s obviously not what Alfie wants or he wouldn’t have wandered off in the first place. 

When he finally reappears, oil in one hand, he’s got one towel wrapped around his waist and another one slung around his neck. Tommy carefully puts the file back into its folder and the folder onto the nightstand, and watches him shuffle across the room with unhurried, heavy footsteps. His skin is a bit damp, too-short hair starting to curl at the nape of his neck. _Fuck,_ Tommy thinks, looking his fill. Shifts closer on pure instinct, once Alfie has sat down on the edge of the bed, expression amused and maybe a bit sheepish. 

“All right?” he says, and Tommy says “hm” before he sways into him, catching his mouth. Alfie turns towards him, one hand heavy on Tommy’s shoulder, pulling him in. Tommy’s licking into his mouth, anticipation shuddering through him all of a sudden, clutching at the damp towel that’s slung around Alfie’s neck, pulling it off and away.

“Right,” Alfie murmurs. “Dealer’s choice, innit. How d’you want me?”

“I…” Tommy says, blinking at him, dazed and at a loss. “Do you… I mean, do you... mind being on your back, or...?” 

“Sure,” Alfie agrees easily. “Yeah, all right.” 

“Yeah?” Tommy says. He’s got his fingers hooked into the remaining towel, still tied around Alfie’s waist, plucking at it hesitantly. 

“Yeah,” Alfie says and kisses him again. Then he’s moving across the bed and lies down, raising an expectant eyebrow when Tommy hovers above him a bit awkwardly, pointedly bracketing Tommy with his own legs. The towel slides down his thighs in the process, still tied securely in place, but now it is barely covering anything. Tommy puts his hand low on one thigh, pushes it underneath the towel, digging his fingers in. 

“So, what…” he says, and then has to stop and clear his throat, because he can feel the muscles in Alfie’s leg tensing at the contact. 

“Well,” Alfie says seriously. “Let’s see here, right…” and then he’s reaching for one of the pillows and raises his hips with a grunt, stuffing it underneath. 

“Right,” Tommy mutters, very distracted by the position they’re in, by the way Alfie’s spread out under him all of a sudden. 

“S’kind of you to say, mate,” Alfie says sarcastically, but he’s smirking at the same time. “Glad you approve, yeah, don’t I-”

“Shut up,” Tommy says. “You, are you… d’you need-” and then he can’t seem to help himself anymore, hand sliding further down until he’s actually touching Alfie’s hole, carefully probing with his fingers. He’s… _fuck,_ Tommy thinks, every possible thought fading from his head at once, he’s fucking _slick._ Slick and open, making a low, surprised noise when two of Tommy’s fingers push inside, clenching down around the intrusion on what seems to be instinct, like he can’t help himself. Tommy can hear his own breath shudder out of him with a shocked exhale. 

“M’fine,” Alfie says hoarsely. “Listen, mate, whenever you ready, right, s’not like we’re-” but Tommy is already fumbling for the oil, slicking himself up. Didn’t even realize he was this close to being actually hard until he fists his own cock and then his breath hisses out of him because of how good it feels. Pulls at the remaining towel with oil-stained fingers afterwards, clumsy enough Alfie has to help him to get rid of it and then everything seems to be ready, they’re good to go, they’re actually going to do this. 

Tommy sinks down on top of him; and Alfie’s eyes actually flutter shut when Tommy starts to push inside. It’s slow fucking going at first, because it’s not like Tommy doesn’t know what to do in theory – they’ve been here before countless times, with their roles reversed after all, but. _Still._ Christ, he’s tight, Tommy thinks. Fuck. Jesus, _fuck._ This is never going to work. 

“S’fine,” Alfie says again, even though he’s still got his eyes closed, so how in the fucking world he would know is anybody’s guess. “Promise you, yeah, it’ll be fine, it’s just, been a while, hasn’t it, so-” 

And the thing is – he’s rambling on like he always does, twenty words where five would do, except this time there’s an _undertone_ to it that Tommy has never, ever heard from him before, something high-strung and jittery that shivers up Tommy’s spine and takes hold of his brain.

“Oh yeah?” he manages, already panting like he’s run for miles, even though they haven’t really done anything yet. “How long?”

“A hundred and three years,” Alfie says, very solemn. There’s a furrow between his brows, like he's trying to figure something out. “Give... give or take a few months, right-” 

“That’s very specific,” Tommy says. 

He’s started to move, out of necessity more than anything, because he literally can’t help it anymore, it’s impossible to keep still. Feels exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, Tommy thinks, pushing into him, opening him _up,_ as he's clutching at the bedding with both hands where he’s keeping himself suspended in the air, fingers twisting into the fabric like _he’s_ the one who needs something to hold onto. 

“Fuck,” Alfie mutters, voice catching on the consonant, and then again, almost like he's angry about it, “... oh. _Fuck.”_

“...’m _trying_ to,” Tommy says, breathless. 

Alfie does open his eyes at that, blinking up at him as if surprised, like he forgot Tommy was there at all, which… given the fact that Tommy currently has his own cock buried halfway inside of him, that would be pretty impressive. He looks almost startled, expression making something dark and possessive unfold inside of Tommy’s chest, making him rock down, fucking deeper without any warning.

“Fucking _fuck-”_ Alfie hisses, whole body twitching at the sensation; it’s impossible to tell whether he’s trying to move into it or get away, but it’s not like it’s his fucking decision anyway, Tommy thinks, feeling weirdly thrilled at the realization. Keeps going regardless, because once he’s started to move again he can’t bring himself to stop, it’s too tight, too hot, too _much_ of everything. 

Alfie doesn’t say anything, doesn’t protest, but he’s really panting by the time Tommy bottoms out, muscles tensing at the intrusion. He has _done_ this before, Tommy thinks helplessly, doesn’t even know how he feels about that right then and there. Alfie’s eyes are open now, but he’s not really _looking_ at Tommy at all, mind clearly a thousand miles away, focused entirely on himself. It’s strange to see, because he never, _ever_ is, at least not when they’re in bed like this. Usually it's the opposite, usually he's paying attention to Tommy to a degree that would be almost frightening if Tommy didn't enjoy it so much, if it didn't lead to the best things time and time again. 

But now Alfie’s entire focus seems directed inwards, like he's too occupied with himself to pay Tommy much attention. It makes Tommy feel stupidly protective all of a sudden, makes him want to give Alfie all the time in the world, despite the fact that his whole body wants to move and fuck and _take._

“You’re all right,” he says. It comes out sounding like a question. “Eh? You’re-”

“Mh-hmmm,” Alfie hums, still furrowing his brow, but he doesn’t look like he’s in any actual pain and more like he’s trying to figure out how to feel about this. He looks… _fuck,_ Tommy thinks, Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking hot for this bastard it’s honestly embarrassing. The way he’s chewing on his lower lip, the way his eyes have gone dark, eyelids heavy, the way some strands of his hair are sticking out at odd angles. The wide expanse of his shoulders, the grip he has on Tommy’s hips, fingers digging in just this side of painful, revealing some kind of… Tommy’s not even sure. Nerves? Discomfort? _Something._

The way his chest is rising and falling unsteadily. The way his thigh feels under Tommy’s hand when he runs his palm over it, starting at the knee and then dragging it down, sturdy and warm to the touch, dusted with fine hair. 

“Right,” Alfie says when Tommy starts pressing a thumb into the spot right above his hip bone, where the skin is soft and gives easily, just because he can, just because it inexplicably makes him shudder with arousal; and Alfie’s clearly going for businesslike, but his voice is way too hoarse to pull it off. “Think you can move now, right, anytime you might be feelin’ like it.”

“Yeah?” Tommy says, honestly asking for confirmation, but it makes Alfie scowl at him, saying, “You want a written fuckin’ invitation, mate? Hm? This gettin’ to be too confusing maybe, yeah? ‘Cause I’d be more than happy to give you some pointers, won't I, if you-”

Then he stops talking altogether and makes a shuddery little inhale through his nose instead, because Tommy just moved, just a bit, just enough. They’re staring at each other, both of them shocked at the sensation, frozen in place for a few long seconds. 

Then Tommy does it again. 

“Fuck,” Alfie rasps, and then “Oh, _fuck,_ c’mon-” and suddenly Tommy is moving, _actually_ fucking moving, shivery and hesitant at first, like some newborn animal learning how to walk, but it doesn’t even matter because it’s good, it’s amazing, it feels like nothing else. Alfie’s really panting now, like he’s doing something actually strenuous, reaching for Tommy shamelessly, guiding him along. 

It’s a lot. When they started this, Tommy might have been a bit worried he’d get too into it, might come too soon, might not be able to deliver anything Alfie wants out of this; but now that worry seems almost secondary, something his brain can’t even consider as a possibility because there’s too much going on, it's overload. 

“Oh, fuck you, mate,” Alfie mutters hoarsely, apropos of nothing. He’s looking half-dazed already, starting to move back against Tommy cautiously, flushed pink right down to his chest, mouth bitten red, hanging open just a bit. 

“You’re welcome,” Tommy says. 

They’ve got a rhythm going now, because of course they do, falling into it easy as anything; nothing too deep, but slow and hard, Tommy putting his back into it, rolling and rolling his hips. It’s hammering underneath his ribs like a pulse, the fact that Alfie likes it – he fucking _likes this,_ it’s obvious, it’s written all over him, Tommy knows what he looks like when he’s having a good time. 

He's got it now, Tommy thinks, triumphant, yeah, he’s got it figured out, he knows what to do. 

“Oh,” Alfie hisses, and then, because that’s all he seems to know how to say anymore, “Hnn, _fuck-”_

He’s got one hand splayed wide over the small of Tommy's back by now, just like he did in the fucking dream, his other palm pressed flat against the headboard, even though it's not like he actually has to brace himself against anything. Still, it does very nice things for the muscles in his arm. 

Christ, Tommy wants to bite him, wants to suck a mark into his biceps, wants to feel the skin give under his teeth- the thought washes over him, makes him snap his hips harder than he intended, and Alfie makes a low noise in the back of his throat that only spurs Tommy on, so he does it again and Alfie makes the same noise _again, Jesus,_ Tommy wants to fuck him into _next week-_

Tommy tips forward and kisses him then, can feel Alfie’s legs tightening against his sides. He curls one hand around the back of Tommy’s neck to keep him close and kisses him back without hesitation, slick and easy; and the helpless little grunt he can’t seem to stop, every single time Tommy fucks back into him makes Tommy’s stomach flip clean over with arousal. Works a tongue into Tommy’s mouth, kissing him until they’re both breathless with it, until Tommy lets his elbows buckle, coming down heavy on top of him until they’re close enough to push their foreheads together, once they have to stop and catch their breath. 

Tommy feels boneless, feels like he’s falling, like he’s burning up from the inside, trying his best to keep their rhythm going. Alfie’s hand wanders up to make a fist in his hair, then back down to his shoulder again, petting at Tommy restlessly, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Not as easy... as it looks, treacle, hmm?” he says when Tommy has to take a deep, shuddering breath that ultimately feels like it accomplishes absolutely nothing, stumbling over the words a bit in a way that makes Tommy _flood_ with heat. 

“Don’t know,” he manages. Alfie's unmistakably hard, Tommy can feel his cock nudging against his own stomach every time he rocks down. “Look pretty fuckin’ easy to me right now.”

Alfie has the nerve to grin at him after that – honest to God _grins_ at him, a bit lopsided and flushed with pleasure, looking fucking _delighted_ at the insult because he is a _madman,_ and before Tommy knows what’s happening they’re kissing again, mindless and hard. He can practically feel Alfie’s smile curve against his lower lip for a second before Alfie’s nipping at it, not exactly gentle but playful, a challenge, daring Tommy to do something about it. 

“Oh, yeah?” Tommy says, right against his mouth and Alfie huffs and mumbles, “No idea what the fuck you’re on about, do I, callin’ _me_ easy-” and then he moans, like he did in the fucking _dream,_ a low, drawn-out sound. 

Tommy is going to lose his bloody _mind._ He’s fucking into him as steady as he can, movement faltering a bit ever so often, because there’s a tremor running through him now that he couldn’t hide if he wanted to, both hands desperately clutching at the sheets on either side of Alfie’s head. 

Alfie doesn’t _quite_ buck up, every time Tommy sinks back into him and his own cock brushes against Tommy's hip or stomach, but there’s a definite twitch there, like he’s chasing after the sensation, breath hitching helplessly each and every time. They keep going like this for a while, until everything feels hazy and out of focus, and Tommy has to fucking _work_ to control himself, because he can feel the first threads of orgasm gently winding themselves around his spine, he’s fucking himself closer and closer with every move. 

Eventually he changes their position a bit, shifts his weight to get his knees under him more, and all of a sudden Alfie says _“fuck”_ again, except it’s a hiss this time, a sharp inhale that makes him shudder and clench down around Tommy’s cock, fingers digging into Tommy’s back, gripping tight with his other hand, where he’s holding onto Tommy’s forearm by now. Tommy stares down at him, absolutely fucking shocked at the reaction, even as he realizes what just happened. No idea how Alfie manages to do this on purpose all of the bloody time, he thinks, because that was nothing but dumb fucking luck, but it's not like that is important right now anyway. 

“Yeah?” he says hoarsely. “Right there?”

“Fuuuuck,” is all Alfie says, head falling back with his eyes closed. Sounds like he’s on a different plane entirely when he says, “...yeah.” And then, when Tommy finds his rhythm again, trying to repeat what he did the first time around, he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Yeah. Yeah, right… right there, _fuck-”_

“Yeah?” Tommy says again, panting, trying and failing not to sound too smug, even though he can feel the adrenaline coursing through him. Thinks that maybe he should slow down a little, make Alfie wait for it a bit, show him what that’s like, caught in the middle of it all, with no place to go and no say in anything; except he absolutely can’t, his body is moving all by itself, trembling at how good it feels. “Like that?”

“Fuck,” Alfie says again, and then he lets go of Tommy’s forearm to touch himself; Tommy can feel him fisting his own cock, knuckles bumping up against Tommy’s stomach. 

“Yeah?” Tommy says again, in equal parts honest question and gloating, because he still can’t quite believe he actually managed to find Alfie’s sweet spot, can’t believe he’s _still doing it,_ “That gonna get you there?” and Alfie makes a sound that might’ve started out as a laugh, breathless and incredulous, and says, “You keep doin’ _this,_ love, yeah... yeah m’fuckin’ done for.”

“Yeah?” Tommy says again, doesn’t even know why he’s asking at this point. Couldn’t look away from Alfie’s flushed face if he fucking _tried_ – the way he can’t seem to keep his eyes open, the way the tension in his shoulders seems to have completely disappeared, the way his head tips back even farther now, exposing the long line of his throat- _Christ,_ Tommy wants to come. He’s so close he can practically taste it, wouldn’t take much at all, speed up a bit and he’d be… right… there, but at the same time he’s mesmerized, because Alfie’s mouth has fallen open and he keeps making the same low, helpless sound every single time Tommy gets the angle right. 

And the thing is, Tommy doesn’t know how he likes it yet, doesn’t know _anything_ about his preferences; so he grits his teeth and just keeps his rhythm steady, fucking into him at the same pace until Alfie suddenly grabs for the headboard again, pushes his palm flat against it until the tendons in his arm are visible, and then he’s moaning in a way Tommy has never heard from him before, loud and absolutely shameless, back arching, thighs clamping down tight against Tommy’s sides. 

It seems surreal for a moment, the fact that Tommy just did that, that Tommy was the cause of it, Alfie looking and sounding like _this,_ coming and fucking _coming_ ; all over himself and Tommy as well, and then Tommy groans, “Jesus, _fuck-”_ and starts coming too. Alfie pants, “oh, fuck you, _fuck-”_ when the thrusts start to become careless, voice scraped to hell, but he tries to pull Tommy in at the same time, one hand still splayed wide over the small of Tommy’s back. 

Tommy crushes their mouths together right as he starts coming, fucking into Alfie at the same time, erratic and selfish; takes and takes and _takes,_ chasing his own pleasure. Alfie’s still moaning about it, which might just be the hottest sound Tommy has ever heard, and who knows, maybe Tommy is too, at this point he’s not sure and he does not care. Not when it feels like this. 

Tommy comes with his face buried against the side of Alfie’s neck, both of them clutching at each other to the point of pain. Stays there for a while even after he’s done with the aftershocks, dazed and out of breath. Alfie’s petting at him half-heartedly, and eventually starts to push at Tommy's shoulder, like he wants him lift off and away. 

Tommy obliges, both of them making a noise when his cock slips free, and rolls off of him and to the side. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, deeply content, whole body glowing with the aftermath of his orgasm. Reaches for one of the pillows that got pushed to the side and shoves it underneath his head, then looks at Alfie expectantly, because there’s enough space for his head too. Alfie blinks at him like he’s confused for a second, before he slowly shifts over and puts his own head down as well. He still seems out of breath and he’s being unnaturally quiet. 

“You…” Tommy mutters eventually, and even that feels strange because usually it’s always, _always_ Alfie asking, but Tommy figures it’s only fair. “You okay?”

“Sure, mate,” Alfie says immediately, but he’s studiously staring at the ceiling. “I’m fine, yeah. Never better.” 

They lie there for a while in silence, shoulders touching. Alfie’s skin still feels like he’s burning up. Tommy fumbles for his hand after a bit, interlacing their fingers. Alfie lets him, weirdly passive about it, even though he absentmindedly runs his thumb over Tommy’s knuckles a few times.

Finally, he says, “I'm just, m'gonna… yeah.” and heaves himself up and out of bed with a grunt. Tommy is watching him like a hawk, unease churning in the pit of his stomach by now – the way he holds himself, the way he moves around. He seems fine, if a bit stiff, which… well, yeah. That’s to be expected. 

The realization unexpectedly makes Tommy flood with heat all over again; the fact that Alfie ist most definitely going to fucking _feel_ this, is going to carry it around with him the whole day, because… even though they didn’t really get up to anything adventurous, it’s been a while, Tommy thinks, something hot and possessive unspooling behind his lungs, Alfie said so himself. He’s definitely feeling sore right now, Tommy knows that from experience. But at the same time, he's not holding himself like he's in any actual pain, at least not as far as Tommy can tell. 

“Listen,” Alfie says, plucking one of the towels off the bed. “You in the mood for breakfast or something? Early lunch maybe? ‘Cause I don't know ‘bout you, mate, but me? M’fucking starving, right.”

“Yeah…” Tommy says. Tries not to stare at him too blatantly, because he is still unabashedly naked; broad shoulders and chest, numerous tattoos and scars, softening cock nestled between his thighs, the glistening wetness there not exactly obvious, but very noticeable in the sunlight that’s filtering in through the windows. _Fuck,_ Tommy thinks, Jesus, he must be slick _everywhere,_ sticky with come and oil. 

Out loud, he says, “Okay, yeah. Should probably get cleaned up first, eh?”

“Yes,” Alfie says, pointing one finger at him like this is an excellent idea he didn't even think of, despite the fact that for whatever fucking reason, he already got out of bed. “Right. I’ll just, listen, just… gimme a minute, mate, yeah? Can have the bathroom all to yourself after that, hmm? Me, I’m gonna-” 

“All right,” Tommy says, except he might as well not have bothered, because Alfie is already on his way out of the room again, towel casually slung over one shoulder. Leaves the bedroom door open, so Tommy can watch him, completely bewildered, as he's walking down the straight hallway, stare after him until the bathroom door closes behind him with a quiet but very final noise.

Right, he thinks, okay then, feeling very confused and vaguely uneasy, and maybe even kind of upset. It's a strange contrast to the sated, satisfied cloud the rest of his body seems to be floating on right now.

What the fuck was that all about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very lovely [petrichorus](https://petrichorus.tumblr.com/) has created one of the [hottest, most accurate depictions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26317960/chapters/64203934#workskin) of this scene anyone could possibly imagine. Go and leave them all the kudos and praise in the world! (nsfw, obviously)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the worst pun of all time. Because... rock bottom. _Bottom._ Get it?  
> Don't worry, I already hate myself...


End file.
